McNally's Luck

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Nothing I didn’t already know,” I said. Then a question occurred to me. “Incidentally, Rod, do you happen to know if Irma, the mother-in-law, is widowed, divorced—or what? I was wondering and of course I didn’t want to ask her directly. It would have sounded too much like prying.”

  Again he paused a moment before answering. Then: “I believe Lydia mentioned that Irma is a widow. Yes, now I recall; her husband was an army officer, killed in the Korean War.”

  “A strong woman,” I opined. “Domineering.”

  “Do you really think so?” he said. “That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? Dominant perhaps, but not domineering.”

  “You poets,” I said, smiling. “You make a nice distinction between adjectives.”

  “I hate adjectives,” he said. “And adverbs. They’re so weak and floppy. Don’t you agree?”

  “Indubitably,” I said, and we both laughed.

  Your hero drove away wondering and happy. Wondering why the bird had suddenly transmogrified from crow to peacock, and happy that I had picked up another item to add to my journal: Mrs. Irma Gloriana was a widow.

  I tooled over to West Palm Beach and started my search. It would add immeasurably to the dramatic impact of this narrative if I could detail fruitless visits to two emergency animal clinics and then conclude triumphantly by telling you I struck paydirt at the last on my list. But I have resolved to make this account as honest as is humanly possible, so I must confess that I succeeded at the first hospital I canvassed.

  I performed my song and dance for the receptionist, a comely young miss. She seemed sympathetic and spoke into an intercom. In a moment a veterinarian exited from an inner office and accosted me. He was wearing a long white doctors’ jacket with five—count ’em, five!—ballpoint pens clipped to a plastic shield in his breast pocket. He was a short, twitchy character who appeared to be of nerdish extraction.

  I repeated my fictional plea, and he blinked furiously at me from behind smudged spectacles. I returned his flickering stare with a look I tried to make as honest and sincere as possible.

  Apparently it worked, for he said in a reedy voice, “I have recently treated a female cat such as you describe, but a man brought her in, not a lady.”

  “A man?” I said thoughtfully. “That was undoubtedly her uncle. He frequently travels with her to prevent her being propositioned by uncouth strangers. She is an extremely attractive young woman. Could you describe the man, please, doctor?”

  “Tall,” he said. “Reddish hair. Broad-shouldered. Very well-dressed in a conservative way. About sixty-five or so, I’d guess.”

  “Her uncle to a T,” I cried. “I’m enormously relieved. And was Peaches seriously ill?”

  “I cannot divulge that information,” he said sternly. “Medical ethics.”

  “Of course,” I said hastily. “Completely understandable. Would you be willing to give me their address, sir? I’m eager to offer them what assistance lean.”

  He went back into his office and returned a few minutes later to hand me a scribbled Post-It note.

  “The man’s name is Charles Girard,” he said. “On Federal Highway. A strange address for someone as prosperous as he seemed to be.”

  “A temporary residence, I’m sure,” I said. “I believe Mr. Girard and his niece are on their way to the Lesser Antilles. Thank you so much for your cooperation, doctor.”

  I had noticed a glass jar on the receptionist’s desk. It bore a label requesting contributions for the feeding and rehabilitation of stray felines. The jar was half-filled with coins. I extracted a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and stuffed it into the jar.

  “For the hungry kitties,” I said piously.

  The vet blinked even more rapidly. “You are very generous,” he commented.

  “My pleasure,” I said, and meant it.

  I boogied out to the Miata. I was very, very pleased with the triumph of my charade. Surely you recall Danton’s prescription for victory: “Audacity, more audacity, always audacity.” How true, how true!

  The veterinarian had been correct about the address given him by Charles Girard: it was a strange neighborhood. The buildings on that stretch of Federal Highway appeared to have been erected fifty years ago and never painted since. They were mostly one and two-story commercial structures housing a boggling variety of businesses: taverns, used car lots, fast-food joints, and a depressing plethora of stores selling sickroom equipment and supplies.

  But there were many vacant shops with For Rent signs in their dusty windows. There was something inexpressibly forlorn and defeated about the entire area, as if the Florida of shining malls and gleaming plazas had passed it by, leaving it to crumble away in the hot sun and salt wind.

  I found the address the vet had provided. It proved to be a motel, and when I tell you it consisted of a dozen individual cabins, you can estimate when it was built. I guessed the late 1940s. I drove past and left the Miata in a small parking area beside a seemingly deserted enterprise that sold plastic lawn and patio furniture.

  I walked slowly back to the Jo-Jean Motel and entered the office. It was not air conditioned, but a wood-bladed ceiling fan revolved lazily. A large, florid lady was perched on a stool behind the counter, bending over one of those supermarket newspapers that everyone denies reading and which sells about five million copies a week. She didn’t look up when I came in.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said loudly, “but I’m looking for Mr. Charles Girard.”

  “South row, Cabin Four,” she said, still perusing her tabloid. I could read the big headline upside down. It said: “Baby Born Whistling ‘Dixie.’”

  I went out into that searing sunlight again, found the south row of cabins. Then I stopped, stared, turned around, and walked hastily back to my Miata.

  Parked alongside Cabin Four was Roderick Gillsworth’s gray Bentley.

  I headed back to the McNally Building, reflecting that I had refused Gillsworth’s offer of an eye-opener that morning, but he had certainly provided one now. I was totally flummoxed. I couldn’t conjure up even the most fantastic scenario to account for the poet visiting a man who apparently had catnapped Harry Willigan’s pride and joy. It made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever.

  And that turned out to be a mistake. I was looking for rationality in a plot that might have been devised by the Three Stooges.

  I was making a turn off Federal when it suddenly occurred to me that the Pelican Club was only a few minutes’ drive away. The sun was inching toward the yardarm, and I decided that refreshment, liquid and solid, in a cool, dim haven was needed to clear my muddleheadedness and get the old ganglia vibrating again.

  I lunched alone, waited upon by the saucy Priscilla. Ordinarily we’d have had a bout of chivying, but Pris recognized my mood, and after taking my order left me alone with my problems. I scarfed determinedly through a giant cheeseburger and a bowl of cold potato salad, and by the time I started on my second schooner of Heineken draft, the McNally spirits were bubbling once again. I finished lunch by devouring a wedge of key lime pie while silently reciting those fatuous lines from Henley’s “Invictus,” although I wasn’t positive I was the captain of my soul. More like a Private First Class.

  I paid my bill at the bar. Simon Pettibone was wearing a striped shirt with sleeve garters and a small black leather bow tie. With his square spectacles and tight helmet of gray hair, he radiated the wisdom and understanding of an upright publican familiar with all the world’s enigmas.

  “Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “I need your advice.”

  “No charge, Mr. McNally,” he said.

  “I have a small puzzle I’m trying to solve. There are two men utterly dissimilar in occupation and probably education and personal wealth. Now what could those two men possibly have in common?”

  Mr. Pettibone stared at me a moment. “Cherchez la femme,” he said.

  I could have hugged him! I was convinced he had it exactly right, and I was determined to follow his counsel. Unfortuna
tely, as events later proved, I cherchezed the wrong femme.

  I stopped briefly at the office, hoping Al Rogoff might have left a message to call him. I wanted to learn if the FBI report had been received and what it contained. I also needed to know if he had spoken to the Atlanta PD about the Glorianas. But there was no message from the sergeant, so I phoned him. He was not available and I left my own message.

  Then, acting on Mr. Pettibone’s advice, I drove over to Ocean Boulevard and headed south for the Willigans’ home. I decided it was time to play the heavy with Laverne, to lean on her enough to discover her relationship with Hertha, the kissing medium.

  The lady was home, but Leon Medallion informed me she was having her “bawth” and he’d ask the maid when Mrs. Willigan would be receiving. All very upper class and impressive until you remembered the lord of the manor was a lout. So I cooled my heels in the tiled foyer until the butler returned and notified me I had been granted an audience with milady.

  I found Laverne in the master suite, which looked like it had been decorated by someone who specialized in Persian bordellos. I’ve never seen such a profusion of silken draperies, porcelain knick-knacks, and embroidered pillows. Instead of Laverne, it should have been Theda Bara reclining on that pink satin chaise longue, swaddled in a robe of purple brocade so voluminous it seemed to go around her three times.

  “Hiya, Archy,” the siren sang. “What’s up?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Hertha Gloriana?” I demanded, figuring it would stun her.

  But she wasn’t at all discombobulated. “Because I was afraid you’d tell Harry,” she said calmly. “I already told you how he hates all that stuff. He calls it ‘fortune-telling bullshit.’ If he knew I was going to the Glorianas’ séances, he’d break my face.”

  “Did you go to the one Lydia Gillsworth attended on the night she was killed?”

  “No,” she said, looking at me wide-eyed. “I had to go to a builders’ association dinner with Harry that night. If you don’t believe me, ask the Glorianas; they’ll tell you I wasn’t there. But why all the sudden interest in spiritualism?”

  “Because I asked Hertha’s help in finding Peaches.”

  I thought she’d be furious because I had ignored her instructions, but she seemed unperturbed.

  “Oh?” she said. “And what did Hertha tell you?”

  “Not very much. She saw Peaches in a single room, but she didn’t know the location.”

  Laverne examined the chartreuse polish on her fingernails. “Well, Hertha is very gifted but she can’t win them all. No medium can.”

  “Did she ever do your horoscope?”

  “Sure she did. So what?”

  “Did you tell her details about your personal life, about Meg and your parents?”

  “Of course. Hertha has to know those things to draw your psychic profile.”

  “Uh-huh. Laverne, do you know a man named Charles Girard?”

  “Nope,” she said promptly. “Never heard of him. Who is he?”

  “He may be one of the catnappers.”

  “No kidding?” she said. “How did you get on to him?”

  “Any genius could have done it. Did you ever hear your husband mention him?”

  “Not that I recall. You better ask Harry.”

  “I shall. Laverne, how long have you known the Glorianas?”

  “Oh, months and months. I guess it must be almost a year now.”

  “Where are they from—do you know?”

  “Chicago, I think.”

  “Is Mrs. Irma Gloriana widowed or divorced?”

  “Divorced. She said her ex lives in California somewhere with their daughter. Frank went with his mother, and the daughter lives with their father.”

  “How long have Hertha and Frank been married?”

  “I think they said four years. Why all these questions about the Glorianas, Archy?”

  I shrugged. “I find them interesting people. Mysterious.”

  “Mysterious?” She laughed. “Not very. They’re just trying to grab the brass ring like everyone else.”

  “You grabbed it,” I said boldly.

  She wasn’t offended. She looked around that scented chamber with satisfaction, then stroked the raised gold and silver design on her robe. “You bet your sweet ass I grabbed it,” she said. “But I’ve paid my dues. By the way, Meg is back in town. She phoned me this morning. You going to see her again?”

  From which I deduced that Meg hadn’t told her sister about the séance she attended with me. Initially I was thankful for that, but then I realized that Laverne would probably learn about it from the Glorianas.

  “Yes, I’d like to see her again,” I said.

  “Good boy,” she said approvingly. “She has to learn that not all men are shitheads. Most, but not all.”

  I had been standing throughout this interview because Laverne hadn’t invited me to sit down. I was weary of standing in one position and couldn’t think of any additional questions to ask.

  “Thank you for your help,” I said. “I’ll phone Harry and ask him if he knows Charles Girard.”

  “Where does Girard live?” she said casually. “Do you know?”

  She shouldn’t have asked that. I had suspected she might be lying when she denied knowing Charles Girard. Her question convinced me she knew very well who he was and now she was trying to discover how much I knew of him.

  “Haven’t the slightest idea,” I said, furrowing the old brow. “But eventually I’ll find him. And Peaches.”

  “Don’t strain yourself, Archy,” she advised. “What difference does it really make? Harry can easily afford the fifty grand they’re asking.”

  “Laverne!” I protested. “Don’t let your husband hear you say that. He wants his pet back without paying and he wants the catnappers strung up by their thumbs—or whatever other bodily appendages are handy.”

  “My husband,” she repeated darkly. “What he wants and what he gets are two different things.”

  I figured that was a good moment to make my farewell, so I did. I drove home thinking that Laverne Willigan had more than ozone between her ears. She had lied glibly and shrewdly, I was certain of that, but what her motives were I wasn’t yet sure.

  And in addition to the Charles Girard business, she had given me another puzzle. Roderick Gillsworth had said Irma Gloriana was widowed. Laverne had just told me she was divorced. I couldn’t believe Irma would give varying accounts of her background to different people; she was too clever for that.

  Which meant that Gillsworth was lying or Laverne was lying.

  Or both.

  I used the phone in my father’s study to call Harry Willigan. He greeted me with screams, and I had to wait until he ran out of breath before I could get in my question about Charles Girard.

  “Never heard of the bozo,” he bellowed and took up his ranting again.

  I hung up softly, hoping he might continue for another five minutes before he realized he was raving into a dead phone.

  I went upstairs and scribbled in my journal for more than an hour. The dossier on the Peaches-Gillsworth case was bulking up nicely, but I still could not see any pattern in all those disparate tidbits of information. Where was Xatyl now that I needed him?

  I had returned from my ocean swim and was dressing for the evening when Al Rogoff called. He wasted no time on preliminaries.

  “I’ve got some news for you,” he said. “Interesting stuff.”

  “And I have a few choice morsels for you,” I said. “When and where can we meet?”

  “I’m up to my pipik in paperwork,” he said. “I probably won’t be able to get away until late. How about you coming over to my wagon around nine-thirty or so.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said. “Can I bring something to lubricate your tonsils?”

  “Nah,” he said, “I have a bottle of wine I’ll pop. It’s a naive domestic burgundy without any breeding, but I think you’ll be amused by its presumption.”

/>   “Thank you, Mr. Thurber,” I said. “See you tonight.”

  That evening Ursi Olson served a Florida dinner of conch chowder, grilled swordfish and plantains with a mango salsa and hearts of palm salad. My father relented, and instead of a jug chablis he brought out a vintage muscadet, flinty hard.

  I returned to my rooms after dinner and added a few more notes to my journal. Then I phoned Information and asked if they had a new listing for Margaret Trumble in Riviera Beach. They gave me the number and I called. I let it ring seven times before I hung up, wondering where she was. I don’t know why I felt uneasy, but I did.

  Then I grabbed up a golf jacket and went trotting out to the Miata. It was a super evening, clear and cool enough to sleep without air conditioning. But that night I didn’t get much chance.

  What Al Rogoff called his “wagon” was actually a mobile home set on a sturdy foundation in a park of similar dwellings off Belvedere Road. It was a pleasant place—lots of lawns and palm trees, a small swimming pool and a smaller recreation room.

  Most of the residents were retirees, and I always suspected Al got a discount on his maintenance because the owner of the park liked the idea of having a cop on the premises. I mean if any villain got the idea of ripping off one of the mobile homes—and they didn’t provide much security—he might think twice if he spotted a guardian of the law strolling around with a howitzer strapped to his hip.

  Al’s home was trim outside and snug inside. He had a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bath, all in a row, like a railroad flat. He had decorated the place himself, and though nothing was lavish or even expensive, I thought it a very attractive and comfortable bachelor’s pad—the kind of place where you could kick off your shoes and mellow out.

  He had a bottle of wine chilled and uncorked when I arrived. But it wasn’t a burgundy, it was an ’87 Sterling cabernet. If you think it blasphemous to cool a good red like that, I must tell you that Floridians customarily refrigerate even the most costly Bordeaux. We dine alfresco a great deal of the time, and if the wine isn’t chilled, you’re slurping soup.